


Don't Start What You Can't Finish

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: 2017 "The 100" Kink Meme Fills [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2016 US Presidential Election, F/M, I just really enjoy this confluence of fic tags, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: Married Kabby distracting each other under the table (and then later in a parking garage) to escape another boring conversation with Jaha about politics.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitteration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteration/gifts).



> filled prompt from the 2017 "the 100" kink meme on livejournal (LINK TO ORIGINAL POST HERE: http://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1753.html?thread=262617#t262617)
> 
> PROMPT: "Kabby Modern au where they're in a bar with friends and discreetly tease each other in public and Marcus ends up fingering and fucking Abby against a wall in that bar and Abby has hard time staying quiet."

She waits until Callie has left to bring back another round of drinks before she says it.  
  
“You,” she murmurs, leaning over like she’s just reaching to get something out of her purse, “are _such_ an asshole.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorts, his expression wounded, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. Fingers up her skirt, inside her thighs, absentminded little circles around her clit. “Sorry, Thelonious,” he says in a louder voice, politely, to the man across the table. “You were saying?”  
  
“I was explaining that the rift between the two leading candidates for Democratic National Committee chairman are fairly emblematic of the rift between the party as a whole,” he went on, and Abby’s _so sick_ of hearing Thelonious talk about politics she wants to smash her face into the plate of nachos Callie left unattended, just to make the nightmare stop.  
  
Kane’s finger crooks inside her. She winces, a sharp little inhale.  
  
“You okay, Abby?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Need some water?”  
  
“Sure. Yes. French fry down the wrong pipe.” _I hate you so much._  
  
She takes the glass of water, drinks, trying to cover her tracks.  
  
“Interesting,” says Marcus, who hates this as much as she does and is _absolutely_ doing this to get back at her because she forgot to put the clean towels back in the bathroom and he had to walk wet and naked down a hallway full of windows to get to the laundry room, and does not think Thelonious is interesting at all. “But, now, correct me if I’m wrong, but my understanding is that the role of chair is largely devoid of real political influence. It’s primarily an administrative position.” Two fingers, sliding in deep, while his gaze remains locked on Thelonious, face the picture of intense interest. Thumb circles her clit. She wriggles a little, as discreetly as she can, trying to get a little more, but he pulls his hand back. Not so fast. And now she can’t move forward to get any more without slipping off the chair, just has to sit there and grit her teeth while Thelonious starts talking about Reince Preibus and Marcus runs light little fingertips through the soft downy hair of her cunt but won’t let her have any more until she holds absolutely still and submits to be tortured.  
  
If she comes while he's talking about Reince goddamn Preibus she is absolutely divorcing him.  
  
But no, they move on to statistics, and she manages to come with very little noise, carefully camouflaging any potential disturbance by deliberately taking too big a bite of Callie’s nachos _just_ as she hits the peak. It’s a canny move, and Marcus can’t help but crook a half smile at her approvingly as he wipes his hand on her panties and extracts it from the table.  
  
Oh, but she’s _pissed_ now, and she knows he’s more than a little turned on by messing with her, so she waits patiently until the _exact_ moment where Marcus launches into one of his Marcus speeches. This one’s about gerrymandering and its impact on the probability of the Democrats taking back the house in the 2018 midterms. She waits until she hears him say “Nate Silver,” counts to three, and then she’s got his fly down and she’s inside his cotton shorts before he’s even finished spluttering with astonishment into his beer.  
  
This is the problem when he starts shit with her. He’s always had a terrible poker face.  
  
Also, he’s a man. Her arousal shows no visible traces.  
  
She, on the other hand, can cause him a _lot_ of trouble.

He’s hard as a rock in like three minutes, because she’s been married to him for four years and she’s a pro at this by now, but of course he started on this conversational train about the goddamn primaries and Thelonious is talking about swing states and Callie just came back with two more pitchers which means he absolutely cannot crack.  
  
She can feel him seething, she can sense the fury rising off him in waves, as she smiles serenely and pours beer with her free hand and rubs her thumb over his frenulum until she can feel his thighs start to shake with the exertion of holding still. She dips her fingernail into the little dent, her favorite place to kiss him slow and gentle when she’s feeling generous, her favorite place to prod at him in public when she needs swift and efficient torture.  
  
“You were telling me at breakfast,” she says to him sweetly, face a mask of perfect innocence as she tightens her grip exactly the way he likes it and watches him forcibly choke down a shudder, “and I thought it was _so right,_ tell Thelonious what you were saying, about McConnell not wanting to push too hard to lose votes from Graham and McCain.”   
  
“Yes,” Marcus grits out. Her thumb glides up the vein, pressing in hard, dipping under the flared ridge.  
  
“Tell Thelonious,” she presses him again, “he’ll think it’s so interesting. About that article in _The Atlantic_ , remember?” Hand slides down, one hard press to the heavy mounds at the base of his cock, and he coughs into his beer.

“I’ll be right back, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” she says. “And then I might step outside to call Clarke, she had a midterm today. Back in ten, you boys keep talking.”  
  
And then, heedless of his furious glare, she’s gone.

* * *

 

 

She’s got no idea what excuse he makes to get away, or how he angles himself so the tent in his jeans is unobtrusive enough to walk through the crowded bar, but when he finds her in the hallway he doesn’t waste any time.  
  
“That,” he growls, “was _cheating_.”  
  
“You started it!”  
  
“You deserved it.”  
  
There’s a back stairwell nobody uses, from the rear exit by the kitchens down to the parking lot, and he yanks her inside so fast her head is spinning. She’s up against cold concrete and he’s inside her before she’s even caught her breath, no time to undress. “I swear to God,” he pants, forehead pressed against hers as he unzips and lifts his cock out of his shorts, “I married a demon.”  
  
“You started it. This is your fault. ‘If you come for the king, you better not’ – wait. Damn. ‘If you come for the king, make sure you’ – Damn. How does that line go? I _had_ it.”  
  
“Just give up,” he advises her, “if that was supposed to be a zippy retort the moment’s passed now.”  
  
“'If you come for the king, you best not miss,'” she finishes triumphantly, and it’s impossible not to be amused that she’s so damn pleased with herself.  
  
“Very good,” he concedes, tugging aside her black panties. “Now you’ve wasted three minutes.”  
  
“Better go fast then,” she says, laughing, and then he’s inside her  
.  
He can’t kiss her, the makeup smears would give them away, and he can’t tangle his hands in her hair the way he likes. But her ass is fair game, cupped in his palms, and he can hoist her up around his waist high enough to lick the tops of her breasts and nuzzle into the space between them. She’s _soaked_ from earlier, and he didn’t come down at all from her torture so he slides in rock-hard, deep and all the way in.  
  
“Yes,” she gasps, all teasing forgotten, clutching at his hair as he tongues her breasts. “Oh God honey, right there. Right there.”  
  
“Oh Jesus, Abby, you’re so . . . . Jesus, _fuck,_ Abby, I’m so close already – “  
  
“Harder,” she begs, not caring that she’s backed against concrete, ready to take everything he throws at her. She bites her lip as he fucks her, holding back a scream so the muffled voices of the kitchen staff on the other side of the wall don’t get curious and open that door. She comes fast and hard, shuddering around his cock, then holds him by the belt loops of his jeans as he releases inside her with a thick heavy grunt before dropping to his knees to keep anything from getting messy.  
  
He likes it this way, it makes her feel nice and clean and him feel nice and dirty, drinking the taste of himself out of her when they fuck in public so she isn’t uncomfortable in soaked panties the rest of the night. She usually gets a free second orgasm out of the deal (third tonight, technically; Jesus, she’s greedy) and it feels makes him feel the good kind of wicked.   
  
After that, it’s only a moment or two to straighten up, dust off her back, zip his fly, and within moments they’re back at the table.  
  
“Clarke says hi,” Abby announces as they make their way back. “Marcus found us on his way back from the men’s room and we put her on speakerphone.”  
  
“We were wondering where you’d gotten to,” says Callie, with the glazed-eyed, desperate look of someone trapped at a table with no evac plan while Thelonious talks about swing states.   
  
“Sorry,” says Kane easily, “we disappeared for a quickie in the parking garage stairwell.”  
  
“Very funny,” says Callie, unamused, and swats Abby’s hand away from the nachos as Thelonious starts talking again. She leans over to whisper in her friend’s ear. “Don’t you _ever_ leave me alone with him again during an election season.”  
  
“Sorry!” whispers Abby. “This just couldn’t wait.”


End file.
